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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24719146">Through Cooling Twilight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiobhanMcF/pseuds/SiobhanMcF'>SiobhanMcF</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Blind Griffin (Visual Novel), The Devil Wears Prada (2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1930s, AU, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Magic, Career focussed and stressed Miranda needs a long cuddle, Eventual Fluff, Everyone is a bi icon, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Multi, Witches</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:54:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24719146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiobhanMcF/pseuds/SiobhanMcF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1925 and jobs aren't easy to come by in New York- especially for fresh-of-the-family-farm girls like Andy. But unlike all those other girls, Andy has a unique talent- even if she doesn't know it herself. A talent that leads her right to Elias Clarke, a relatively new but widely successful fashion magazine and one Miranda Priestly. A crossover of the magical 1920s speakeasy story of the Blind Griffin and The Devil Wears Prada. In summary, witches, fashion and speakeasies!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andrea Sachs/Nate, Miranda Priestly &amp; Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A City of Wonder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>
      <span>December, 1925<br/><br/></span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>The jar she'd been holding explodes, filling the air with smoke and slivers of glass slicing through it as they hurtle themselves through the room.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>That had </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> gone the way she had wanted at all, yet she couldn’t say it was unexpected. Andy braced herself. Miranda was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to be pleased about this either. Without even looking, Andy knew she was pursing her lips and giving her an annoyed, cold glare. It wasn’t fair- This was what? Her second week? When she and Nate had moved to New York, this was the last place she had expected to end up. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>An assistant</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>For a fashion magazine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It had been in the top twenty in the list of job choices at best. <br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>
      <span>October, 1925<br/><br/></span>
    </em>
  </span>
  <span>She and Nate had arrived from Ohio a little over a month ago and miraculously managed to secure a small apartment in Queens. Nate had a job as a Commis Chef and Andy had started out as a tailor’s assistant. She was excited to finally be in New York,  it had been time to spread her wings. Andy loved her family and the countryside was beautiful, but it had become suffocating. Being asked where she was going anytime she left the house-- and where she'd been anytime she returned has grown annoying really fast. New York gave her freedom… In more ways than one. Her parents might not have said it yet, but it was obvious they were disappointed she and Nate hadn’t put a ring on it. Luckily several of her brothers already had children- Andy just hoped it was enough to appease her mother for now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had wanted to make something of herself first</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought of just being someone’s housewife suffocated her. She had her sights set a lot higher. As much as she loved Nate, she didn’t want him- no didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> him to make things happen for her. But there weren’t many jobs for a countryside girl from Ohio and it had been a small miracle that she had managed to get a position at all. It had been less of a miracle when she had been fired two weeks in. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>So now she was wandering the streets of New York in search of something new, looking for a shopkeeper or anyone who looked like they might need help. Even if it was only for a day, they needed the money, but more than anything Andy needed to restore her pride. Anything would do; selling newspapers, lifting crates, helping at the market- as long as it was work. Although preferably work that would allow them to heat their one-bedroom apartment again. The months were getting colder and while he didn’t like to show it, Nate was starting to shiver at night. She felt guilty, if she was bringing in money things would be better. At least the cold didn’t affect her, it never had. It was her only blessing really, the cold had never found her, not once in her life. Even when her family's farm had been covered in snow so deep her father could barely wade through it, she had felt chilly at worst. Andy missed them terribly. She could almost smell the hay when she closed her eyes as she imagined her mother in the kitchen, and her father sitting on the fence together with her brothers as they took a break from their work. Andy was reminiscing about her family as she noticed it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Floating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Golden sparkles that slowly pulsed in the air. No one around her seemed to notice the weird sparkles, all passerbys... well, they just passed by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were words floating around her, shimmering and sparkling. Words that looked like they were made of smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy slowly crept up on the sparks, making sure to keep her eyes on them at all times, somewhere she was afraid that they might disappear if she wouldn't. She extended her hand warily, her fingers tingling softly as she came closer. Just when Andy thought her fingers would finally make contact, they disappeared and turned into a silvery, glittery smoke. The smoke circled around her fingers, to eventually settle in the palm of her hand as they formed a string of elegant, cursive words- taunting her. But the frustration was soon forgotten as the smoke slipped out of her hand and shaped itself in a trail, leading into an alley and disappearing around a corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one else around seemed to notice the words, or the sparkles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Curiouser and curiouser. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But she supposed she had nothing to lose and certainly nothing better to do, so she followed the trail. When it stopped, she saw nothing but a generic brownstone building; an office block by the looks of it. Upon further inspection, she found a small brass plaque next to the entrance. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Elias-Clark. Runway Headquarters</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A publisher then, but not a magazine she recognized. When she peeked through the window, she saw nothing of interest. Nothing that hinted towards the fact that a mysterious trail of smoke led here. Andy knocked on the door, hesitantly at first, louder when no one answered. Then, she carefully ventured 'round the back where she found crates and boxes piled up near the backdoor. Normally she would have found it curious. From experience, she knew this amount and size of boxes was quite abnormal for this type of business. But right now, she was preoccupied with invitations solidifying out of smoke and floating golden sparkles invisible to everyone else. Andy hesitatingly knocked on the backdoor, not sure whether or not she wanted it to open. After a long second, she released the breath she'd been holding. Hastened steps sounded on the other side of the door and it was opened by a rather tall and slender woman. She raised an eyebrow, clearly scrutinizing her hair, face, clothes and shoes. Andy suddenly felt self-conscious of the difference between them. The woman in front of her wore an elegant dress which accentuated her small waist and boots which didn’t have a single scuff mark on them. Her hair, dark red --</span>
  <em>
    <span>that couldn’t possibly be natural?--  </span>
  </em>
  <span>was impeccably coiffed and perfectly matched her lipstick. Andy could feel herself blushing, she didn’t look near as good but she always made sure to look presentable. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I assume you’re here for the job.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Not at all what she had expected, but welcome nevertheless. Part of her wanted to ask about the sparkles and smoke that led her here, but she realised how ridiculous that would sound-- even if Andy was convinced that it had led her here. But jobs got her money, and money got her food and paid the bills. Golden sparkles did not. So she nodded.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Well stop dawdling and come in. Miranda does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> like to be kept waiting” Her voice had a sharp, exasperated edge to it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How rude</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She started walking and beckoned for Andy to follow her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And who was Miranda?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Probably whoever was in charge, Andy surmised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked into a narrow corridor where she could see flecks of dust floating lazily in the air. In the cupboards, she spied stacks of neatly organised office supplies. The redhead led her into a staircase and up multiple flights, all the way to the top. Why they couldn’t have taken the elevator she spotted at the bottom was a mystery to her, although the pace with which Emily was climbing the stairs in her exceptionally high heels was even more of a mystery. And all without breaking a sweat. The contrast between the staircase and the corridor they now found themselves in couldn’t have been greater. The floor was carpeted with soft, lush black velvet, the walls were covered in grey wallpaper with intricate patterns, the crown moulding and baseboard painted golden, and the chair rail in a deep red. All in all, the place looked far too luxurious for a Midwestern farm girl </span>
  <em>
    <span>and too luxurious for a publishing house.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Framed magazines with their bold, immediately recognisable typeface lined the walls. Somewhere in Andy’s mind, a light bulb sprung to life. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It couldn’t be…</span>
  </em>
  <span> She hit herself for not recognising the name when she saw it on the plaque at the door. Runway wasn’t just a fashion magazine, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> fashion magazine. Any self-respecting American would know it, even a midwestern countryside girl. In less than a year, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Runway</span>
  </em>
  <span> had become one of America’s most popular magazines, competing with the likes of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vogue</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Time Magazine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her palms were sweaty. Yes, working for a publishing house or newspaper had been her dream job for as long as she could remember. Just not a fashion magazine. Fashion, for obvious reasons, had never played a large role in her life growing up on a farm just outside Cincinnati with five older brothers.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“What did you say your name was again?” Her musings were interrupted by the redhead, who was nervously going through an exquisite leather folder filled with what looked like resumes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrea Sachs- But you can call me Andy, everyone does.” She could have fessed up that her resume wasn’t in there, but no point going back now that she had come so far. Especially after climbing all those stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other woman swore under her breath, Andy noticed with a ping of guilt. They stopped in what Andy assumed was an office-cum-reception area, decorated with two desks on opposite ends of the room and a stylish set of furniture for guests in the corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you be successful” -her voice left no doubt that she was convinced Andy would not be- “this is where you will be working.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Ah.” Truthfully speaking, it looked nice. Nothing like the stories of Lily and Dough and their offices. No shabby, creaking chairs or desks that had undoubtedly been there since the 1890s. Even the filing cabinets on the walls behind them looked stylish.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The other woman continued.“It’s a hard job, no doubt. You will be expected to be in at least ten hours each day, starting at eight.” The monotonous tone told Andy she had gone through this description at least a dozen times already, with little faith she wouldn’t be doing it again soon “Your job is to anticipate and accommodate Miranda’s needs. That could be anything from ordering stationery, to accompanying her on outings or running errands for the magazine. But as her assistant, there will be no editorial work.” Her heart sank a bit, but she supposed that that was how everyone started. At the bottom. “However, you will spend day after day, week after week with this amazing woman.” A sharp inbreath marked the end of her rattling. “Miranda will undoubtedly become one of the most influential women in fashion and clearly one of the most inspiring editors in the world.” The admiration was abundant. “The opportunity to work for her, watch her edit and to help her achieve all that she does- It’s just unbelievable. It’s a job a million girls would die for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah- Of course, that does sound wonderful.” Andy replied, wondering why she was trying to sell her something a million others would die for. But there was not much time to think, the redhead --Andy still didn’t know her name-- had put down the folder and was walking towards what Andy assumed was her prospective bosses office.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>So it was a fashion magazine, not her first choice but not her last either. If this job and ‘Miranda’ really were as great as the other woman made them out to be, surely it would give her the right kind of prestige to eventually work for something a little more interesting. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe even The New Yorker</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she mused wistfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other woman turned around and scrutinized her, eyes landing on the small canvas kitbag under her shoulder.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Lose that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy had wanted to protest, but before she got a chance the other woman had snatched her bag and pushed it under her desk. She supposed the bag hadn’t been very fashionable. With that, the other woman turned around and opened the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The office was a wide-open space with large windows letting in streams of sunlight whilst looking out over the Manhattan skyline. The walls were lined with artful photos by photographers Any did not yet know, but soon would. In the middle of the room, in the front of the windows was a large, cherry wood desk with a set of perfectly fanned out magazines on the work surface and an ice-cold glass of water sat on a coaster in the corner. And behind it sat a woman unlike anyone Andy had met before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the redhead --Emily, she learned-- introduced her, the woman was watching her intently- observing, Andy realised after a moment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So this was Miranda</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She spoke first.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“What do you read?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I love The New Yorker, but I’ll sometimes read Times, it’s a bit dry though” she babbled “I’ll skim </span>
  <em>
    <span>Life</span>
  </em>
  <span>- but only as a guilty pleasure of course-”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“So you don’t read Runway, Ahn-drey-ah?” Miranda interrupted, leaning over the desk and peering at Andy even more intently than before.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She could have lied, said yes and maybe gotten away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But the silence dragged on just a second too long and Andy knew the opportunity was gone</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“And before today, you never heard of me?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>No point in lying now. “No.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you obviously have no style of sense of fashion.” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Andy bristled. “Well, that depends on-”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“That wasn’t a question.” Her voice was low and soft, yet it commanded the entire room. A shiver went down her spine. If it wasn’t for the verbal dressing down she was obviously receiving, Andy would wish Miranda never stopped speaking.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I was Editor in Chief of the Daily Northwestern, we won prizes for the national competition for regional newspapers with a series on speakeasies in--”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Miranda raises her hand. “That’s all.” Her voice is final, disinterested. The rejection stung, but before she can say something Miranda stares at her, raising an eyebrow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What are you still doing here</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Andy huffs. She starts heading towards the door, but thinks better of it.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Fine. You’re right. I am not like you and I don’t fit in here. I’m not glamorous or skinny and I don’t know much about fashion. But I’m smart, I learn fast and I work </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> hard.” She stands her ground, even as Miranda’s hard, blue eyes find her. Andy holds her gaze, trying to give as good as she got. She even dares to hope…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Miranda said nothing.</span>
</p><p><span>After a long moment, Andy turned around and stomped out of the office, grabbing her bag from under a desk as she made her way towards the staircase. </span><em><span>That rude, uppity, stick up her-</span></em> <span><br/></span><span><br/></span><span>“Andrea!” Her tirade was interrupted. Emily beckoned her back in. She had the job.</span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Burning kindling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Andy is settling in at work, meeting her new colleagues and learning about life of Runway... And eager to find out more, both about those sparkles and her enigmatic boss. But for that she'll have to move up in the world of fashion first. (Setting up some bits and bobs for the rest of the story in this chapter, but I promise that Miranda will make a proper appearance soon!)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> October 10th, 1925 </em>
</p><p>The following week passed in the flurry of expensive scarves, brands Andy could barely pronounce- let alone spell and a very particular coffee order that was now burned into her brain. Each morning, she would race up the stairs, having obtained one searing no-foam, skim latte with an extra shot from Delmonico’s, a place she had never dared stepped into before. The price of the coffee immediately reminded her why. But Miranda never settled for anything less than the best. It was a compliment, really, she mused one morning as she was weaving her way through cloth racks and make-up trolleys to pick up proofs from Accessories. Out of the (apparent) million girls that could kill for this job, Miranda had chosen her. But more importantly, Miranda had not fired her, which apparently counted for something as all twelve girls before her had quit within a week. Or so Christine from Fashion had told her. She hadn’t realised when she had the interview, but the floors below Miranda’s executive suite were always bustling with activity and staff. There were about seventy-five in editorial, of which more than half in Fashion (obviously) with the rest evenly spread between Features, Beauty and Art. And Emily seemed to know every last one of them. All were absolutely stunning and none seemed to weigh more than 110 pounds. Andy felt terribly out of place. </p><p>And just when she thought she was getting the hang of it, Runway pulled the carpet from under her feet. An instance of which many more were to follow, she would later realise. She had been happily dozing in bed, basking in the glorious knowledge that whilst Nat had to get up early for his shift, she could stay in bed at least another hour and a half. When he returns to their apartment minutes after leaving, she should have known something was up. Apparently he bumped into their landlady on the way down, complaining they had a caller. At five-fortyfive in the morning. </p><p>So now she was sat in a subway cart smelling vaguely of urine, opposite a man who didn’t even bother to be subtle about his ogling. Mrs Shaw had been less than amused at the early morning call and reminded them of the terms of their rental. Which did not include 6 am calls. But while Mrs Shaw was intimidating, Miranda was downright terrifying- <em> Hell, even Emily was scarier than Mrs Shaw. </em> Emily’s words were still resounding in her mind, as she had memorised them word for word as she hadn’t woken up with a notepad and pen in hand, to Emily’s great chagrin. </p><p>“Miranda decided to kill the Autumn Jacket story for September — she’s pulling up the Sedona shoot from October. You need to go into the office right this second. Pick up her coffee order on the way. Write this down.” </p><p>Ten coffees from Delmonico’s, all different types with complicated Italian names and slightly different milk. Not only hard to remember, but probably also the cost of Andy’s weekly wages. But Runway- No, Miranda had her own tab and spent more money on coffee than Andy thought was humanly possible.<br/><br/>As she ran through the hall, trying to not spill centre-of-the-sun hot coffee on her feet, Miranda’s voice sounded faintly through the door. <br/><br/>“Is there a reason my coffee is not here? Was I unclear in some way?” Whilst she was barely audible, she was unmistakably annoyed. Mere seconds later, the door to the office opened and revealed Emily- looking positively panicked.</p><p>“What took you so long?” she hissed.<br/><br/>“I came as fast as I could!” <br/><br/>“I hope you know this is a very difficult job for which you are totally wrong and if you mess up <em> my </em> head is on the chopping block.” Emily disappeared again and Andy breathed a sigh of relief as she made her way towards her desk, ready to tackle whatever impossible demands Miranda would throw at her today. But not just that, today was the day. Her curiosity was eating her up and her patience was at breaking point. Manic boss or not, Andy was investigating those strange sparkles. So she had pre-packed her lunch and borrowed a camera from Dough after promising him it was just for some work stuff- And it wasn’t technically a lie. Those sparkles <em> had </em> to be related to Runway. That much was certain. Nate had even offered to prepare her lunch, he just assumed it was because her job was so crazy. Guilt sat heavy in her stomach, but there was no easy way to explain any of this. </p><p>Come lunchtime, she inhales her pasta salad, gains a dirty look from Emily, sends a mental apology to Nate and heads out. It doesn’t take her long to retrace her steps to where she started that first day. There is nothing but grime and the sounds of New York streets. Then it happens, just as she turns a corner she spots it. Shimmering sparkles, suspended in the air and behind them a trail Andy is convinced will lead to Runway. The metal of the Kodak weighs heavy in her hands. This is the moment of truth. As Andy glances through the lens she realises the words are there again, she had been too distracted the first time to read them. She quints, it’s hard to decipher the fine cursive from this side of the street.</p><p>‘<em> Welcome to </em> … <em> enchanted....our coven’  </em></p><p>Just as she finally made out the first few words, a car flashes by and she presses the shutter in reflex. When Andy looks up again, they’re gone. No words, no sparkles- There is nothing but a vague sense of loss aching in her chest. Later that week, when she gets the film developed all there is on the photograph is a blur of a car and nothing else. </p><p>She burned the photo and watched as flames scorched the mocking image.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>October 13th, 1925 </em>
</p><p>She had tried on every bit of clothing she owns; even some of the ‘fancy’ gowns aunt Jemima had given her. All of them now in a large discard pile on the floor, the rest of her clothes strewn about their bedroom. Her empty closet is mocking her, so is the mirror as she glances at her reflection. It looked horrible and stunted, her torso to round and her legs too big. <em> And had her hair always been that fizzy? </em> She felt nauseous, hating her body and the clothes on it. But no time to fix it now. <br/><br/>Not that it would matter. The clackers would make fun of her regardless and Emily would serve her the usual glare of disdain, paired with a stinging comment. But somehow that wasn’t what bothered her, their contempt Andy could deal with. Miranda, she could not deal with. Not that she ever really said something. Miranda never said anything about her looks, her clothes or her weight. And after that first day involving <em> those </em> shoes, she hadn’t given Andy any pointed looks either. Somehow that only made it worse.</p><hr/><p><em> October 20th, 1925 </em> <br/>Towards the end of October, things at Runway got even more manic than usual but Andy could find no discernible reason why. The next print deadline wasn’t for a while yet and Miranda didn’t strike her as the Halloween celebrating-type. If it were just Miranda, Andy thought she could have managed. But it was Emily. The Brit seemed to permanently be on the verge of a mental breakdown —more so than usual— with a tinge of neuroticism. </p><p>“Call Nigel and tell him Miranda moved the run through up by an hour and that we need those bags. And ask Jocelyn to make sure Anna, not Edith, delivers those bags to the Central Park shoot.”<br/><br/>“What-” <br/><br/>“And then call Roy and pick up the orders from Hermes and De La Renta, tell him to take Miranda’s Mercedes to the garage and have the breaks checked and then pick up Delmonico’s on your way back and make sure to get it here for the runthrough.”</p><p>Andy swore under her breath. Miranda ordering her around was one thing, but Emily? Horrific didn’t even begin to describe it. So she powered through; started coming in at six every day with a Delmonico’s in hand, tried to listen to every word Emily said and hoped —prayed— that it would all be over soon. However, there was one concession she wouldn’t make.<br/><br/>“What about lunch?”<br/><br/>Emily arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow, a move she undoubtedly copied from Miranda. “What about it.”</p><p>She barely resisted rolling her eyes. <em> Fine. </em> “Well what about the bathroom. All those sugary drinks that replaced lunch will need to come out at some point y’know.”</p><p>“Deal with it.” She sniffed. “A million girls would kill for this job, so just do it.”</p><p>Something snapped inside her.“Why don’t you do it then.”</p><p>“Remember, you and I have totally different jobs. You run errands, you get coffee, etcetera. I am in charge of her schedule, her expenses, her appointments.” This time Andy couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. Emily’s hero worship was bad enough, but her worship for the job… <em> God. </em> </p><p>“But, most importantly…” Emily’s voice shifted- She sounded almost… happy? “I get to go with her to Paris for Fashion Week in the fall.” Emily definitely sounded happy and Andy wished she’d go back to being neurotic soon. It was uncanny. “I get to wear couture, go to all the shows, all the parties, meet all the designers.” It sounded like a nightmare to Andy, but whatever made the Brit happy. “Oh Andrea, it’s absolutely divine.”<br/><br/>And on that scary note, Andy decided to pack her bag and prepare for her mad dash across New York. But not before calling Nigel. She still remembered her first encounter with Nigel. Even though she now realised he wasn’t so bad, it still stung a little. </p><hr/><p>
  <em>October 12th, 1925 </em>
</p><p>A tall man in a cape sat perched on Emily’s desk <em>Did he not know how silly that looked</em>,<br/><br/>“Who IS that sad little person? Are we doing a Before-and-After piece I don’t know about?<br/><br/>“If only.” She could practically feel Emily rolling her eyes on the other side of the room.<br/><br/>“Clearly my opinion means nothing.”<br/><br/>“I <em>am</em> here, you know?<br/><br/>“Of course, my apologies.” He extended a hand. Nigel Kipling. Fashion Director.” <em>Of course he was. </em>“So what are we working with?” He spun his finger, signalling her to turn around for him to examine. It was tempting to resist, but she thought better of it. Everything aside, she needed the job and it wouldn't do to anger people now, so Andy stood up and spun. <em>And she still had to figure out where those sparkles came from… But times and places…</em><br/><br/>“God- It’s like Oklahoma and New Jersey had a baby out of wedlock.”<br/><br/>She grit her teeth. “I’m from Ohio.”<br/><br/>“That beats Mississippi I suppose.” She couldn’t suppress a smirk at that.<br/><br/>“As lovely as it was to meet you, I must dash.” He headed off towards the hallway, but turned around before disappearing through the door frame. “Welcome to the happy family, darling.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes! No Starbucks! As part of my own unhealthy dependence on Miranda's favourite stimulant required to conform to unrealistic capitalist standards of labour and maintain profitability, I know quite a bit about coffee. And Delmonico's actually was a very high class and very expensive! Miranda would have loved it.</p><p>Also a bit of a filler chapter, but something with ducks and rows. And I felt bad for not updating it because I've had this part ready for a while- but knew it was a bit boring. But local woman (me) is also very stressed about job interviews (yikes) and research panels (very yikes), so may not do much writing any time soon. Anyhow, hope you enjoyed! I promise I am working towards more interesting things! They are coming up!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Glowing embers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>October 21th, 1925<br/><br/></span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At seven-forty five, Miranda swooped into the office, causing clackers to flee the hallways in a flurry of quickly hidden carbs and flats.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Emily” Emily glared at her, which Andy took to mean that Miranda needed her, rather than the actual Emily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell Claire that the proofs she sent are unacceptable and I will not tolerate more substandard work. Where is that bag I asked for, I didn’t see it in my deliveries.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her blood stilled. She had hoped Miranda hadn’t noticed the missing Marc Jacobs bag last night. In hindsight, it was a very naive thought. During their latest visit to Marc Jacobs, Miranda had taken a liking to a specific, obviously one of a kind, handbag and thus tasked Andy with obtaining it. And she would have, if it wasn’t for Annabelle —the Marc Jacobs’ design manager— going into labour as Andy had gone to pick it up. They reassured her she could pick it up first thing the next morning instead and Andy had simply hoped that would be enough. But Miranda had decided to come in early and Andy was a sitting duck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well Miranda I tried, but-” She tried halfheartedly, but knew it wouldn’t matter. In any other scenario she would have pushed the matter, justified herself because </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone giving birth surely was a good reason for a minor delay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But she had quickly learned Miranda wouldn’t see it that way. She had failed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Details of your incompetence do not interest me.” And with that Miranda dismissed her. Emily simply smirked, but Andy was glad she got off lightly. A minor miracle. For once Andy felt lucky they had been manically busy as the end of the month neared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miranda turned to face her first assistant. “Tell Mary I’m not approving the girl she sent in for the London sheet. I wanted clean, elegant, and smiling not tired, rude and garish...”- </span>
  <em>
    <span>How could someone </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> rude?!- </span>
  </em>
  <span>“...and do they not have dental care in England? My god.” Emily looked slightly put out at that and Andy thought it served her right. “Then RSVP to the Chanel soirée- Roy will drop me off at nine-thirty and wait until I leave at ten- no, nine-fortyfive. Tell Natalie at Delmonico’s for the fortieth time — no, I don’t want the tortes filled with warm rhubarb compote. I want the chopped almonds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily nodded and turned toward her desk, picking up the phone before she was even seated and thus pushing Andy unto the breach once more. “Call my ex-husband and remind him the girls will be with their grandmother this weekend. Then call my husband and tell him to meet me for dinner at that place I went with Massimo…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which-” Emily glared at her and Miranda simply ignored her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And tell Nigel I want him to go with Jocelyn to the Lanvin showing, I will not condone another disaster.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist started to cramp up, but she resisted the urge to shake it. For reasons unbeknown to her, Miranda (and therefore Emily) took issue with it and as with all things Miranda, her word was law.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pick up the polaroids from the lingerie shoot, I want them in my office before lunch. Call Cara about the books and the park and confirm Tuesday with Lagerfeld and Donatella.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Andy barely suppressed a sigh of relief when she finally heard the magical “That’s all” granting her permission to return to her desk, where Emily immediately sent her away again to run a never-ending list of errands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As she raced the streets of New York —traffic was too congested for the town car—Andy tried to think of better —Priestly-free— times. A mere four weeks ago she had never heard of Miranda Priestly nor Runway. The idea itself seemed absurd now that her life seemed to revolve around Miranda; Miranda’s needs, Miranda’s demands and more often than not Miranda’s softly spoken, intimidating orders. She barely even dealt with Runway matters, just Miranda and a plethora of absurdly expensive coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she got back, Emily made a beeline for the bathroom and then disappeared to the Arts Department, leaving Andy to man the phones and handle the dragon. When she got back, the Brit had a curious errand for her. A meal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nigel says the book is going to be late tonight, so I need you to bring me a salad -</span>
  <span>with no dressing or croutons</span>
  <span>- before you leave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After overcoming her initial surprise, Andy’s curiosity peaked. </span>
  <span>“The book?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily looked up from the planner on her desk. “Listen. Carefully.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Andy stilled and grabbed her notebook and pen, which earned her a small look of approval from Emily (not that Emily would never admit to it). </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“The Book is a mock-up of everything in the current issue. We deliver it to Miranda’s townhouse every night and she returns it in the morning with her notes. The second assistant was supposed to do it, once we hired one. But-” Emily looked her up and down, faltering for a second. “...Well, Miranda is very private and doesn’t like strangers coming into her house. So until she decides you are not a psycho, I get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>lovely</span>
  </em>
  <span> task of waiting around for the Book.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Andy’s heart sank a little. They thought- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Miranda</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought she was a psycho. Andy hoped she had made somewhat of a good impression by now. She wanted Miranda to have a good impression of her- to one day be actually impressed by her work. There was something about Miranda that struck her. Although she wouldn’t ever admit to any living soul, she daydreamed about herself being powerful and established like Miranda. Maybe not as an editor, but as a well-respected journalist. To have her own beautiful office, having people come to her for advice- having them respect her opinion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-” Her voice sounded feeble, even to her own ears. “How do I do that?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I have no idea.” With that Emily turned on her heels and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Andy alone to contemplate her newfound feelings of inadequacy.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>October 23th, 1925<br/><br/></span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miranda was in a great mood. And by great, Andy meant horrific. Terrifying, horrible and much, much more. She didn’t know what had brought about her mood and she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to wait around to find out. Miranda’s eyes had glittered with venomous ferocity that </span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>had she not experienced it in person</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span> would have fascinated Andy. She found this applied to Miranda in general. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Miranda.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Queen of fashion. The Devil in Prada. One of the most powerful women on the East Coast. Andy adored, respected and feared her in equal measure. So here she was, sprinting up the stairs to her desk- And Emily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She wants a skirt!” Andy panted.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did she say what kind?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>That peeved her. “Of course she did, just like how she always explains her needs and decisions to me in great depth!”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily fell silent, but then elegantly plucked the phone of its holder on her desk. “Jocelyn? Yes, Miranda needs a skirt, it’ll need to be delivered at the townhouse tonight together with the book.” Her brow furrowed “No, of course I don’t know, she didn’t say.” And that was the end of the call. Emily turned to her with a look Andy had come to know as the ‘Miranda handling 101’ look.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“So this is obviously much more difficult when she doesn’t give us specifics, but Miranda is obviously too busy to worry herself with little details like material, colour, style or brand-” </span>
  <em>
    <span>The sweet, sweet irony</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “-but I know her size and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> know her taste well enough to predict what she’ll like.” Andy really hoped she did, for both their sakes. She imagined Jocelyn would bring on some skirts from the Closet and that Emily would pick a few to take with her to the townhouse. She was wrong. What followed was a process nothing short of a military operation. The office was overrun by messengers and delivery boys from all major fashion houses and the high-class department stores in New York. Prada, Versace, Chanel -</span>
  <em>
    <span>so many Chanel skirts</span>
  </em>
  <span>-, Hermes, Bergdorf- the list went on and on. Once they had all left, the reception area was stacked with garment bags and boxes. Emily, against all expectations, looked unfazed and unimpressed. Within mere minutes, she eliminated more than half of them whilst critically eyeing the remainder. Later, she realised that it was this moment where Emily started to grow on her. For all her flaws and neuroticism, she had an eye for fashion Andy could only dream about. By the time Andy had returned from her many, many errands Emily had commandeered one of the meeting rooms where she had whittled down the collection to seven skirts, each looking more luxurious and beautiful than the other. She carefully observed as Emily laid the skirts out on the table, inspecting them closely. It was the calmest Andy had ever seen her. She even talked Andy through the various fabric compositions and their refraction indices (which Andy hadn’t even known fabrics had); how it affected the flow and fall of the fabric. What dyes and materials would suit Miranda’s skin tone. A science Andy didn’t even know existed and which Emily had mastered and she could only hope to understand one day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their final selection consisted of three skirts; Prada, Chanel and Hermès respectively, and all worth more than Andy’s annual income. They were all carefully folded, wrapped in silk and put in garment boxes. Emily had already called for a courier who was already waiting to race across New York, delivering it to Miranda’s private tennis courts. If only she would stay there, that way Andy may actually be able to go to the bathroom. Possibly even have lunch again! Ever since that uneventful trip, by some cruel turn of faith lunch had been no more. Seeing as Emily had raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow and scoffed when Andy had asked for a lunch break, she had a gut feeling this was to be the new status quo.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just as Andy was about to sneak a handful of chocolate raisins whilst Emily was off to see Nigel at the Arts Department, Miranda called her- prompting her to drop them and they predictably scattered all over the floor.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Please make a reservation for me and my husband at the Waldorf-Astoria for tonight and then confirm it with his secretary.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Yes Mira-” The connection was severed. “-nda.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Typical</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So she made the reservation -guessing the time based on the rest of the planner- which was surprisingly easy using Miranda’s name. Now she only had to call Miranda’s driver, nanny and cook, as well as Stephen’s secretary. Emily and Nigel would be back any minute now so she set about the real challenge of the day: finding her chocolate raisins on the dark carpet before Emily came back from the Art Department and court martialled her. So of course, as she was on her hands and knees underneath her desk, the phone rang again.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Did you confirm my reservation for tomorrow.” She really should have seen that coming from a mile away.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Yes Miranda, tonight at nine o’clock.” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Well, change it. Make a reservation at Le Bernardin and remind the maître d’ I want a table in the back, not on display in the front. That’s all.”</span>
  <span></span>
    <br/>
  
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Of course, Miranda” The muscles around her mouth twitched as she put on the millionth fake smile of the day. “Thank you, Miranda.” Andy took satisfaction in the silence on the other end of the line. She could sense Miranda pausing, wondering how to respond. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Andy - 1 , Miranda - … 100?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Small victories. After a quick call to Stephen’s secretary </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course he had a secretary</span>
  </em>
  <span> she had only one task left: checking the floor for rogue chocolate raisins. She saw none. Missing accomplished. Not a second later after she allowed herself a small victory cheer, Emily strode back into their office, accompanied by Nigel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did anything happen while I was gone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Miranda called.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily’s head turned faster than Andy thought humanly possible. “And?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She didn’t fire me, so I think it went great.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily huffed, grabbed some papers and strode into Miranda’s office. Nigel was in less of a hurry and looked her up and down, appreciatively. “My, my. We may make a Runway girl out of you yet.” His eyes then flicked to the ground and he crouched down, elegantly. He picked up something small and brown- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Or maybe not.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coming from anyone else, it would have been malicious. But as Nigel put the small chocolate raisin on her desk with a surreptitious wink, Andy felt nothing but fondness of her new colleague.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yeah it's gonna be short updates but I promise I am still writing. It's just slow going as I try to figure out life. Short ones just makes it easier to do it consistently :) (Also yes we'll get more Miranda soon and more witchy stuff!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Spreading flames</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em><span>October 24th, 1925<br/>
</span></em><span>As she snuck out of the bathroom, Andy nearly had a heart attack. It was 9 PM and she hadn’t been able to pee since mid-afternoon. How Emily managed, she’d never understand. Andy had ended up in her awkward predicament because the Brit had been out since two following an emergency run to Hermes because some poor girl in accessories spilt tea on Miranda-- rumour had it, she was halfway to the American border. The ‘incident’ combined with an awkward coinciding of schedules had left Andy responsible for slaving away at the backlog. So came nine o’clock, she had made the executive decision that a five-minute bathroom break wouldn’t be the end of the world, or so Andy had hoped, because when she came out she could hear Miranda’s soft voice sounding faintly in the hallway, coming from her office. Her heart stopped in her chest, had she missed a call? Should she be looking for a ticket to the Canadian border too? Then it struck her. </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Miranda sounded... Different. Happier, gentle even? Her voice was still soft and melodic, but full of warmth and affection. The cadence of her voice was unrecognisable. Gone was the steady and unwavering firmness, instead it now rose and fell with full and energetic tones. Andy slowly crept up to the door where a small ray of light snuck between the wedged open door, onto the dim hallway. She could hear the words filter through as she got closer. </span><em><span>Bobbsey?</span></em> <em><span>Ah…</span></em><span> The twins; that would explain a lot. With great care, she manages to peek through the gap and catch a glimpse of Miranda. She’s smiling. Even though she shouldn’t be, it surprised Andy. It’s the first genuine smile she’s ever seen on Miranda. And surprising as it was, it didn’t prepare her for what came next. Soft, cascading laughter fills the office and then quietly filters through to where Andy is standing in the dim hallway. It’s fascinating, but something jolts her out of her reveries. The air around Miranda is shifting and changing, it shimmers and sparkles like the grand chandelier in the Waldorf-Astoria; subtle and beautiful. She swears she hears a soft tinkling chime in perfect resonance with Miranda’s laughter. Andy’s mind involuntarily flits back to that eventful day on the street. </span><em><span>No, it couldn’t be</span></em><span>. She resists the urge to pinch herself. It was just the exhaustion, it had been a long, long day with the usual Runway allowances for breaks. All just a figment of her tired imagination.<br/>
<br/>
</span></p><p>
  <span>Later that night, against all odds and despite her exhaustion, Andy found herself staring at the damp spots on her ceiling. By all rights, she should be fast asleep- like Nate who was snoring rhythmically beside her. But she couldn’t let it go; it kept replaying it in her mind. The longer she went on, the more she was convinced it wasn’t just her imagination. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It can’t be a coincidence. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But where to even start? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily’s desk, she decided. While Andy was in charge of the minor aspects of Miranda’s schedule and errands, Emily was essentially in charge of Miranda’s life. Every single one of Miranda’s appointments, invoices, phone calls and whims went through or by Emily. And there’d be plenty of opportunities, once Andy wasn’t out on errands. Plus, it wasn’t as if anyone was paying attention to her (except Miranda when she messed up, somehow that never escaped the editor’s attention). No one cared about the ‘fat ugly’ girl anyway. Her stomach sank a bit. Part of her had hoped that working with Runway --with women-- might be empowering, or at least less harrying than working in a male-dominated office. Evidently, she’d been naive.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
October, 25th 1925<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <span>“While you’re out, you need to go to Hermès and pick up the scarves Miranda ordered. And Cassidy forgot her homework at Dalton- pick that up. And Miranda went out to meet with Meisel, but she’ll want more coffee when she gets back, but make sure to be back by two. We’re doing a second run through after that disaster with the bags last time.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Andy swore internally. Was Miranda punishing her? Was it because she liked bagels? If it wasn’t for the sheer audacity of the thought and the realisation how self-centred the suggestion would be that Miranda cared enough about her to concentrate her pinpoint focus on Andy, she would swear that was exactly what was happening. Emily hadn’t been out on a single errand all week. In fact -spare the skirt-incidence- Andy had barely seen her. But her current misfortunes came with one immense advantage, once her maniacal boss would allow her to stand still for more than five seconds she could safely snoop through Emily’s desk. She rounded the corner, carefully balancing her coffee, garment boxes, bags and armful of newspapers and magazines. As she was about to throw her shoulder into the doors leading to the least busy staircase, Nigel spotted her. He gestured for her to come over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be silly, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t need </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> much exercise.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Thanks.” She huffed, but there was no bite to his comment and she knew that in time she would give him as good as she got. “But I don’t suppose you expect these to just float up to Miranda.” Andy nodded at the boxes, bags, parcels and coffee in her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but I’ll happily share </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> ride up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy raised an eyebrow in question, surely he didn’t mean Miranda. “I didn’t realise you wanted me gone that badly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nigel rolled his eyes. “Always so dramatic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what-” But Nigel cut her off with a warning look before offering a polite smile to someone behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr Ravitz.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy spun around, her eyes going wide as they landed on Irv Ravitz; Elias Clarke CEO and arguably the most powerful person in the building. Beating even Miranda. However, unlike Miranda, Mr. Ravitz didn’t appear hellbent on intimidating anyone who dared to share a room with him. Instead, he offered a wide smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes- but Andy supposed that was to be expected, the man </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> CEO after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nigel, always good to see you. And welcome Ms Sachs, I hear you are Miranda’s latest second assistant?” She nodded wearily, not sure if him knowing her name was a good thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you be joining us for the run-through as well?” She barely suppressed a snort at that. As if Miranda and Emily would ever let her anywhere near their beloved couture. Luckily, Nigel saved her from having to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Ms Sachs won’t be joining us, but I thought I would give her a hand with her bags.” He grabbed a few of the bags and a box that had been balanced precariously on her forearm. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very chivalrous, Nigel.” Mr Ravitz chuckled as he reached for a handful of Andy’s bags himself. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you have all the honour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, this isn’t about honour. We wouldn’t want her to trip and break her legs- not now that we have finally found a girl Miranda hasn’t decided to eat alive.” Nigel quipped as they started to make their way towards the elevator.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr Ravitz shot her a conspiratorial wink. “Congratulations, it’s a job a million girls would die for.” Andy simply nodded, a million girls- but she decidedly wasn’t one of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the elevator doors closed in front of them, Mr Ravitz turned to face Nigel, his tone now decidedly business-like. “Issue going well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be our best one yet.” She raised an eyebrow. That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> what he had said when she last passed by the Art Department.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr Ravitz nodded.“I hope so.” His voice was neutral; too neutral for Andy’s liking. “I heard Miranda killed autumn jackets and pulled up the Sedona shoot. What’s that costing me?”</span>
</p><p><span>“$21,000”</span><span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span><span>Andy barely bit back a choke. </span><em><span>21,000 dollars?</span></em> <em><span>That was more than she and Nate made a combined, if not at least double.</span></em><span> But neither Nigel nor Mr Ravitz bat an eyebrow.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Those better be some lousy jackets.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nigel said nothing and shrugged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As luck would have it, after the run-through, Emily was accompanying Miranda on a newly scheduled Prada viewing, a task obviously way too important and wholly unsuitable for a measly second assistant. Andy barely heard Emily’s fleeting sneer about her weight as Andy handed the Brit her coat, her mind already considering how best to root through the desk and file cabinets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever Andy hoped to find in Emily’s desk, she was ready to give up on it. All that the hour-long rooting through her colleague’s desk had revealed was her neuroticism and obsession for colour coding. Nothing she didn’t already know. The only thing out of place was a singular embossed envelope, holding an invitation to a Sunday luncheon. Nothing out of the ordinary in itself; Andy knew firsthand that Miranda received hundreds of those each month, but they were usually carefully filed away by Emily. She would class them by its sender, location, importance and their purpose, before finally making a small selection of invites which the Brit deemed important enough to present to Miranda. This particular invitation, however, had escaped the system and was tucked away behind two planners and the weekly expenses folder. What was more, it intrigued Andy. For no apparent reason, she felt drawn in by the thick, textured paper of the envelope and the elegant cursive spelling out Miranda’s name. A shiver ran through her as she slowly brushed her fingers over it, as if caressing the dried ink. The invitation itself was printed on obsidian cotton cardstock, with golden lettering imprinted on it, lying heavy on the thick paper. For reasons unknown to her, she pocketed it and took it home.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Short updates it is! For what it's worth, half the next chapter is already written. Whoop whoop!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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